


But I Have Seen the Demon Host

by trashcangimmick



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dream Sex, M/M, Other, Pining, Rough Sex, This Is Fucked Up My Dudes, Threesome - M/M/M, Unknowing Monsturfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 19:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20364094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: Steve is in his bed with two Billys standing over him. One of them seems more than a little off.





	But I Have Seen the Demon Host

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missroserose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/gifts).

> CONSENT ISSUES CONSENT ISSUES CONSENT ISSUES!!!!!!!!

_ Pretty boy_. 

The words echo through the dark. Steve doesn’t know where he is. 

The air is thick. Heavy in his lungs, like hot, humid summer haze. It’s sticky. A burden to breathe. It smells a little like smoke. Not cigarettes. Steve’s always found the scent of tobacco comforting. His father smokes. He grew up with it smelling like home. No. This smoke is acrid and greasy, almost industrial. The dirty taste lingers on the back of his tongue. 

Steve blinks. He’s in his bedroom. Or, he’s in a strange version of it. The walls are water-stained, paint bulging and peeling off the walls. The windows are streaked with dust, distorting the sunset-orange light filtering through them. The bed sags strangely. The floor feels like it’s slanted a few degrees off a flat horizon. 

There are two Billys standing over him. Leering at him. They’re identical in almost every way. Soft blonde curls, blue eyes, and broad shoulders. One of them is in a grimy white tank top. The other is in a silk shirt with a leather jacket draped over it. 

They’re both smiling at him. One expression is quite familiar. It’s teasing, a little mean. It’s the same face Steve sees when he’s flushed, and squirming, and stuffed full, and Billy asks _ you gonna come on my dick, you fucking whore? _

The other is like a fork squeaking on a plate. The smile looks wrong. There’s no emotion behind it. There’s no malice, or playfulness, or even lust. It’s a well-dressed storefront hiding empty shelves. A forgery that might fool someone who hadn’t memorized the intimate details of the original. Steve doesn’t like it. 

“Hey, pretty boy.” The first Billy says, stepping in closer. 

“We’ve been waiting for you.” The other’s voice sounds exactly the same. 

Billy sits on the edge of the bed. He pulls Steve into his lap. Steve is naked. He gasps when Billy dips forward to start kissing his neck. He moans when Billy smacks his ass. Not just once. Several times for each cheek. Too much force behind it to be all games. Billy likes turning the skin bright pink. When it’s the right shade of flushed and it stings more than a little, Billy sometimes calls Steve a _ peach _ and says he’s good enough to eat. 

There’s another pair of hands on him. Gently touching his shoulders, tracing down his back. It makes Steve shiver. The pressure is so light, it almost tickles. It verges on discomfort in a tantalizing way. It makes him ache for more. 

Billy bites low on his neck and sucks a deep bruise. He grabs Steve’s ass and spreads it. The soft caresses trail lower. The pad of a finger rubs across his hole. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time. Billy has thick fingers. But Billy isn’t gentle. 

Steve has never minded the burn of being stretched too quick. He likes that Billy always seems desperate to get inside him. Whenever this thing that they do happens, they’re usually a least a little intoxicated. It’s sloppy and feverish. Heat of the moment. They never admit to planning it. Even if Steve suspects there’s only one reason either of them would show up at some stupid sophomore’s party on a Thursday night—it’s not something he would say. He never asks why Billy has lube in his pocket. Just like Billy never mentions that Steve’s shaved. It doesn’t matter if they drive off in Billy’s car after a few beers. It doesn’t matter if they just smoke a joint in the driveway and don’t enter the party at all. They can’t acknowledge that anything is intentional. That would make them guilty of an unforgivable sin. 

At least. That’s how Billy would feel. Billy is a wild animal, not a house pet. Steve only gets close enough to touch because Billy lets him. Any sudden movements and Steve might lose a limb. 

The finger on his hole keeps teasing him. Spit-slick. Barely dipping inside before retreating. Steve’s hard. He can’t help trying to press close and grind against Billy’s abs. 

“What a greedy slut.” Billy tugs Steve’s hips back, laughs at him. He keeps a firm grip. Keeps Steve right where he is, just enough space between their bodies to be unsatisfying. 

“You were right.” The voice comes from behind Steve’s shoulder. “He’s real easy.”

It’s not Billy. 

He looks like Billy. He sounds like Billy. He doesn’t move like Billy. It’s been more than a minute and he hasn’t shoved two fingers into Steve. He’s not ruthlessly rubbing against Steve’s prostate. He’s not scratching, or biting, or breathing heavy like he’s barely keeping control. 

The person behind him plants a soft kiss below Steve’s ear. He presses his finger in to the second knuckle before withdrawing it. Adding more spit. Daring to nudge deeper. Steve can’t contain the needy whimpers. Billy stares at him with half-lidded eyes. Hungry as he ever is. 

“What’s taking so long?” Billy groans. “He’s not a fuckin’ virgin.”

The voice behind Steve chuckles. It’s reserved. Mildly amused. “You sure he’s the greedy slut here?”

Billy scoffs. Opens his mouth like he wants to say something. Then he doesn’t. His jaw snaps shut. He digs his nails into Steve’s hips. 

The fact that he doesn’t throw a punch, or swear, or at least snipe back is scary. Because Billy is only ever polite when he’s afraid. Billy isn’t afraid of many things. Whoever—if it’s a who and not a what—has a finger in Steve must be dangerous. 

Steve doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know why he’s there, or why the air tastes bad, or why there are two Billys and one of them is wrong. Somebody else wearing a Billy suit. Is it for Steve’s benefit? What’s underneath?

Another finger slides into him. Steve rocks back against it. He shouldn’t be letting this happen. He should be asking questions. He has so many questions.

Steve’s hands are splayed on Billy’s chest, over the dirty tank top stained with blooms of black. Steve looks down and counts the fingers from one to eleven. Counts them again, comes back with nine. He gets ten on the third try, but they still don’t look right. They’re too long and his right thumb doesn’t look like it really belongs to him. He’s dreaming. 

Steve counts his fingers several times a day when he’s awake. Anytime he looks down at them, he counts them to develop the reflex. He’s always looking at clocks. Numbers don’t make sense in dreams, or they twist, and bleed, and warp as you look at them. Sometimes, you have the wrong amount of fingers. There are always signs if you pay attention. Steve pays a lot of attention. He’s had terrible nightmares ever since the first time he swung a baseball bat at an otherworldly horror. This is the only thing the expensive psychiatrist told him that was helpful. 

Usually when Steve realizes he’s asleep, he wakes up. 

He’s still in Billy’s lap. There are three fingers inside him, slippery with more than spit. There’s an open jar of vaseline on the nightstand. 

“I want you to fuck him,” the other Billy says, voice rumbling deep. 

The fingers are gone. Billy starts to pull Steve forward. 

“No. On his hands and knees. I want to see his pretty face.”

Billy’s hands flex on Steve’s hips again. After a few beats, he follows instructions. He lifts Steve up, maneuvers them to the middle of the bed. Steve spreads his legs a little out of habit. He’s tall. Billy is too, but he’s got a longer torso and Steve’s got long legs. Billy lines up and sinks in. Of course he didn’t slick up his cock. He says he likes Steve _ tight _. Which means barely ready. Which means Billy is probably not happy about how wet and open Steve is already. He still grunts when he’s all the way in. 

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs. “Fuckin’ missed this.”

Billy pumps into him slow and smooth a few times, which is as much of an adjustment period as Steve ever gets. Then they’re off. Billy thrusting into him fast enough to make their skin slap. There’s something about the way he rocks his hips. It always makes his dick drag against the hot spot just right. It makes Steve moan. It makes him dizzy. 

He likes how good it hurts. Because it does hurt. It burns, deep and dirty, like an exhausted muscle. Gives him a runner’s high. Floods him with endorphins and makes him want it rougher. He’s already so close. Just from this. Just from getting filled, and fucked, and used. 

The other Billy kneels in front of him. He threads his fingers into Steve’s hair, tugs ever so slightly, coaxing Steve to lift his head. Steve makes eye contact. He can’t hold it for long. Not with the way Billy is pounding into him. Not with the way the eyes staring back are slate-grey instead of blue. 

Maybe it’s a trick of the strange lighting. Maybe Steve’s brain made an imperfect copy when translating fragments of memory into a dream. That doesn’t explain why one Billy feels right and the other one is wrong. Everything about him just a few millimeters off the correct axis. In a picture, he’d be indistinguishable. As a three-dimensional rendering, the flaws are more apparent. 

His face is too symmetrical. His eyebrows are _ exactly _the same shape. He smiles again, his teeth are perfect, white and straight. Teeth only look like that in a magazine. 

He lets go of Steve’s hair to cup his chin instead. He rubs his thumb across Steve’s cheek, teases at the corner of his mouth. 

“So beautiful…” he murmurs. “I’ve always thought you were beautiful. From the first moment I saw you. I knew I had to have you. I’m only sorry it’s taken this long.”

The words don’t make sense. Billy’s voice, but not what Billy would say. Not something Billy would ever say. Steve’s panting, dizzy, the tip of his dick is sticky. He feels so good but he’s so nervous. This whole situation is _ bad _. He can feel it in his bones. He also has the sense that he can’t escape. If he ran for the door, it wouldn’t open into his house. If he climbed out the window, he might fall forever. He’s not waking up. When he realizes he’s asleep, he usually wakes up. Why can’t he wake up?

“This isn’t your dream,” the other Billy murmurs. Still stroking his cheek. “It’s mine. Just like you’re mine now.”

Panic starts to well in Steve’s chest. It’s a horrible cresting wave of anxiety, choking him, making him tingle all over in the bad way. But then the other Billy slips a thumb into his mouth. Strokes over his tongue. It tastes… sweet. Like there’s a film of sugar-coating on his skin. 

Steve’s mouth goes a little numb. The feeling and the taste dissipate. He relaxes. He feels light and floaty. His focus redirects to how amazing it feels to be full. He loves to be full. It’s all he ever wants. 

“There we go,” the other Billy murmurs. “Just enjoy it. I want you to like it.”

He removes his thumb. Then his hands are on Steve’s shoulders. He’s moving closer, lifting Steve so he’s just balanced on his knees, leaning into the other Billy’s grasp. He’d be falling over if it weren’t for the strong arms holding him up. He and the other Billy are nose to nose. 

It’s absolutely not Billy. 

Steve knew that before. He knows it beyond any shadow of a doubt when lips press against his and a tongue flicks into his mouth. 

Billy has never kissed him. Steve has never dared to try. There are plenty of guys who would come down your throat but freak out about a brush of lips. Billy seems like one of them. The balancing act is already precarious. Why add another variable? Even if Steve wants it desperately, he can’t get greedy. He’d rather have some of what he wants than none of it at all. 

So, he’s greedy now instead. Even though it’s not Billy. It looks like Billy. He hopes that it feels how Billy would feel. He knows it doesn’t. The kiss is gentle. Teasing. It makes him warm. Makes his cock twitch. 

Not-Billy reaches down and wraps a hand around Steve’s dick. He gives it a few firm strokes. Steve feels himself flutter around Billy. 

“Shit. ‘M gonna come,” Billy groans. 

“No. You aren’t.” Not-Billy murmurs.

Billy stops moving. Holding onto Steve so tight. Not-Billy kisses him. Keeps jerking him off. It’s perfect. Just the right pressure. Just the right speed. It’s just how Steve touches himself. He starts to tense. He can’t take it. 

“Fuck him through it.” Not-Billy smiles against his mouth. 

It’s too much to process when Billy thrusts into him again. It’s sloppy. A-rhythmic. With a hand on his cock, there’s not even a whisper of discomfort. It’s all amazing. Steve makes the most pathetic noises. He’s never experienced having a tongue in his mouth while there’s a cock up his ass. He never understood why girls were so crazy about being kissed _ during. _Maybe he gets it now. 

He peaks so hard, he stops breathing. He shudders as his muscles contract. He splatters come all over Not-Billy’s hand. On his leather jacket. Regular Billy would be upset about that. 

“OK.” Not-Billy laughs. “Go ahead, bitch. Have your fun.”

The reaction is immediate. Billy grinds deep into Steve, gasping, and groaning. Then he goes still. He pulls out with a slick pop and flops back into the bed behind him.

Not-Billy backs up. He lets Steve fall to his hands and knees again. He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair. Petting him like a puppy.

“Can I use your mouth, baby?” Not-Billy asks so sweet. 

Steve isn’t used to it. He’s used to _ open up, slut, I’m gonna fuck that stupid smile off your face. _He finds himself nodding. He finds that he kind of wants it. That’s natural right? Wanting to return the favor after someone else makes you feel so good. 

Not-Billy pushes between his lips. 

“It’ll be over soon.” The words are still soft and saccharine. But the voice doesn’t sound like Billy anymore. It’s too deep. It reverberates around the room. 

Steve looks up. He still sees that facsimile of Billy’s face. But he also sees the black, spidery limbs, spreading out from the thing’s torso. 

_ “Just stay very still.” _

Steve jolts awake. Covered in cold sweat. He feels nauseous. He tries to focus on breathing. The red numbers on his alarm clock stay steady when they tell him that it’s 3:09 in the morning. They don’t flicker or melt. He’s awake. 

Billy is dead. Steve knows that. He watched it happen. He’s a piece of shit that didn’t do anything to stop it. He feels guilty. That’s it. 

Just his brain trying to work out the tangled emotions that have been roiling in his chest. Trying to express the things he doesn’t say to the expensive shrink. 

He was dreaming. The phantom sensations of hands on him, the awful taste in his mouth, it’s all just the residual sleep state. It’s not real. 

As he closes his eyes, there’s a dull echo. Not in his ears, but in his mind. 

_ See you soon, pretty boy. _

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ‘Demon Host’ by Timber Timbre. 
> 
> Check out flippyspoon’s or my [ tumblr](https://trashcangimmick.tumblr.com/) and search ‘Harringrove for RACIES’ to find the Deets if you’re interested in it.


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